Shadow's End (31 page)

Every Wyr, except Dragos. He didn't bow. Bel didn't think he had it in him to bow to anyone. But he did stand rigidly at attention.

The crowd followed the Wyr's lead, bowing to Death and paying homage to the sentinel and the Djinn who had fallen. Bel's gaze filled with moisture, and she bit her lips. As Death came abreast, she bowed as well. The silence remained, deep and profound, until the last of the gods exited the banquet hall at the other end.

The musicians lifted their instruments, music filled the hall once again, and the moment of remembrance was over.

Long after midnight, after everyone had unmasked and the crowd thinned, Graydon came to find her. He looked as tired as she felt. At some point, he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first few shirt buttons at his neck.

All of the sentinels, along with Dragos, Pia and Liam, had worn black that evening. While she knew, like Linwe dying the pink out of her hair, that none of them had worn black as a fashion statement, still, the simple formality of Graydon's suit looked good on him.

The black emphasized the long length of his body, along with the power in the breadth of those wide, muscled shoulders. It also highlighted his colors—the healthy burnish of his deep tan, his tawny hair, and the rich depth in his dark gray eyes.

Even though, she did admit to herself, the cut of the suit managed to achieve adequate.

A rush of love for him washed over her. When he came up to her, she opened her arms, and he walked into them, wrapping her in a big hug, while his presence surrounded her with that nourishing, friendly blaze.

She could never get enough of it, never get tired of his companionship. The fact that she was also overcome with desire and deeply, desperately in love with him sealed her fate, and she was content to never leave it.

Nestling against his chest, she lifted her face for his kiss.

He stroked her shoulders. “We're gathering up at the penthouse. It's kinda tradition after the masque, and we'd like for you—
I'd
like for you to come, if you would.”

Instantly, she put her own tiredness aside. This was her first invitation to an inner circle gathering. She was frankly surprised that it had come so soon. It was too important for her not to go.

And even if none of that had been true, Graydon wanted her there, and that was all the impetus she needed.

“Of course,” she said. As he laced his fingers through hers, and they walked in the direction of the elevators, she asked, “Who will be there?”

“It's just going to be the sentinels. Rune and Carling, and Pia, Liam and Dragos.” He paused, giving her a sidelong look. “Fair warning. More than a couple of us might get falling down drunk, including me.”

So it would be a very small, select group.

She squeezed his fingers. “Do you need me to stay sober, so that I can get us back to the apartment?”

He shook his head. “I never get so drunk I can't get home.”

She told him, “Then I may very well join you, because it's been a hell of a week.”

A spark of surprised approval entered his gaze. He said, “It sure has.”

Not only was this her first invitation to an inner circle gathering, but it would also be the first occasion she spent any time with the sentinels, or the Cuelebres as a family.

Back in January, before the crisis in the Elven demesne had erupted, she had shared a brief visit and a connection with Pia, but she hadn't spent any time with the other woman since then.

Bel may have been invited, but not necessarily accepted. Not yet. While she had faced countless social challenges before in her long life, this one mattered in a critical way that most of the others had not.

She couldn't pretend that she wasn't afraid. She wanted this to go well so badly, not just for herself, but for Graydon too.

While she couldn't do anything about the fear, what she could do was face the challenge head-on. As she turned to face the elevator doors, she straightened her spine.

When the doors opened with a quiet swoosh, she stepped into the penthouse, Graydon at her side.

TWENTY

E
ven though nothing showed but calm composure on Bel's beautiful face, in the elevator Graydon had caught a hint of nervousness in her scent.

It highlighted how remarkably good she was at managing the stresses of her own internal reality because as they stepped into the penthouse, her entire attention focused on everyone around her.

It also showed him, up close and personal, that she had a hell of a game face too. He had always known it. He had seen flashes of it in the past, but it was one thing to know and quite another to see that game face in action. He already respected her, but over the next hour, that respect deepened exponentially.

Everyone else was already present. The males had removed suits and ties. Aryal had set aside her formal cut leather jacket. Most of the adults were already drinking, and most of the drinks were the hard stuff. Carling nursed a bottle of bloodwine.

Pia refrained from alcohol. Liam drank Coke, and even though there had been plenty of sumptuous refreshments at
the masque, the boy was already eating again. He kept his head down, avoiding other people's gazes.

Like the adults, he had been subdued ever since Constantine's death. Graydon noted the subtle way that Pia kept her attention on him. He had no doubt that she would make sure Liam got what he needed emotionally.

At first, there were small signs of stiffness around Bel, the telltale behaviors of people who had known each other for a long time as they accepted a near stranger into their midst. Within a half an hour, those had melted away entirely.

Bel and Pia spent some time together, tucked into a corner of the large living room, Bel's dark head bent close to Pia's pale blond one. Graydon's gaze slipped over to them several times. He saw he wasn't the only to watch the tête-à-tête. All the sentinels did, Dragos most of all. At the end of their talk, the two women hugged.

There was so much obvious affection between them, it felt good. It felt right, like Bel had somehow managed to slip into a place that filled a hole in their lives, one that Graydon hadn't even been aware that the group had.

Sometime later, somehow, the dam between them all—the one keeping them from talking about Constantine—broke. Graydon didn't catch how it happened. He hadn't felt like drinking hard liquor that night after all, so he had walked into the kitchen for a new six-pack of lager.

When he came back to the large living room, he heard Aryal telling Bel, “He was a total asshole manwhore. He chewed through women the way some people go through Tic Tacs.”

“Oh, my.” Bel coughed. “That's an image that won't leave my head in a hurry.”

As she spoke, she met Graydon's gaze. There was so much compassion in her eyes, he was not surprised that it had touched even Aryal's tempestuous, spiky heart.

Bayne tossed his whiskey back. He said suddenly, “Do you remember that time one of his dates doused his clothes with lighter fluid, set a match to them and threw them out his balcony window?”

“I got a phone call that day,” Rune said. “Traffic control from downstairs told me, ‘Did you know it's raining men's briefs, and they're on fire?'”

A laugh shook out of Grym. It faded into something close to tears. The gargoyle pinched his nose and expelled a hard sigh. “Nicest asshole you'd ever want to meet. If you weren't a woman.”

“Best, most loyal friend,” Graydon said. His throat closed, and he couldn't say anymore. Quietly, Bel made her way across the room to put her arm around him. He kissed her forehead, and she leaned against him.

Rune said, “Hell of a fighter. Hell of an investigator too.” He tossed a whiskey back.

Alexander offered in a quiet voice, “I didn't get the chance to know him as long or as well as the rest of you, but he had become my brother.”

They shared stories about Constantine into the early hours of the morning. No doubt, it wouldn't be the last time they needed to reminisce, but it felt good—good in a way that made the pain of loss more bearable.

Thank you,
he said in Bel's head.

She looked up at him.
For what, my love?

I didn't catch how you started it,
he told her.
But I know you did. We needed to talk about him.

The Wyr demesne has never lost a sentinel before,
she said softly.
It's going to take you all a while to heal, but have faith. You will.

If anyone knew how to survive loss, it was Bel. He wrapped his arms around her, soaking in the comfort of her feminine presence.

Dragos remained silent throughout the reminiscing. He sprawled in one oversized armchair, drinking brandy steadily while his gold gaze watched everyone. It was impossible to tell what he felt or thought. He kept his face impassive.

Pia had kicked off her heels and curled against his side. Absently, he rubbed one hand back and forth along the curve of her hip.

Nearby, Liam sprawled on the floor, playing a game on
a mini tablet. Even though it was almost five in the morning, nobody had suggested that he go to bed. He needed to process the grief as much, if not more, than any of the rest of them.

Eventually, Rune and Carling said good night. They left in a flurry of hugs and good-byes. Rune touched Dragos on the shoulder, and the two men had a brief telepathic exchange. Dragos gave the other man a nod, and the couple left.

Graydon watched, glad that the two men had reconciled enough so that Dragos could accept Rune and Carling as being part of their extended family.

After they had gone, perhaps inevitably, the subject of how to fill Constantine's sentinel position came up. Quentin said to Dragos, “I suppose you've been too busy to give much thought to picking another sentinel.”

Hesitantly, Bel said in Graydon's head,
This might be an ignorant question, but do you think he would consider inviting Rune back?

He shook his head.
Not a chance,
he told her.
They're recovering their friendship, but Dragos would never allow Carling to get that close to the seat of power in the Wyr demesne. In some ways, Dragos and Carling are too much alike. They're both schemers.

I guess I should be glad he's been so accepting of me, relatively speaking,
Bel said slowly, her expression pensive.
I've been so preoccupied by working to accept him that I hadn't considered that before.

He hugged her tight.
Yes, you're Elven, and yes, you were a major force in the Elven demesne. But trust me, you are an entirely different reality from Carling.

As they shared their private exchange, the others watched Dragos consider Quentin's question. He said, “Yes, I've thought about it.”

Graydon met Aryal's frustrated gaze. When Dragos wanted to be inscrutable, sometimes getting any information out of him was like trying to pull giant, dragon-sized teeth.

Aryal said, “You're not going to hold another round of
Sentinel Games, are you? Not only was it a hellish expense, but that week was exhausting.”

“No,” Dragos replied. “Doing it once was a show of our strength. Holding public games again, especially so soon after the first time and in the wake of Constantine's death, sends another message entirely. I'm thinking of a private event, with a short list of handpicked contestants.”

From his position on the floor, Liam said, “It's my spot.”

Since it was the first time the boy had spoken that night, it took a few moments for everyone to absorb exactly what he had said.

The sentinels looked at each other. Over by the bar, Aryal pivoted abruptly to put her back to the group. Graydon caught a glimpse of her wide-eyed profile as she mouthed
oh my fucking god
to the wall.

Pia straightened from her position reclining against Dragos's side. Her expression turned guarded, her sharp gaze intent on her son.

“What did you say?” Dragos said, even though Graydon knew the dragon had heard Liam perfectly. “Sit up straight when you're talking, and look at me.”

Moving deliberately, Liam did more than sit up straight. He pushed to his feet and turned to face his father.

He didn't seem angry, Graydon noted. Nor did he act defiant. There was something set in his young-looking, handsome expression, as if he had made up his mind, and nothing in the world was going to change it.

For several months now, everyone had been wondering if and how Liam might act out in teenage rebellion.

Here we go, Graydon thought. He braced himself.

Meeting Dragos's gaze, Liam said in a calm, steady voice, “That sentinel position is mine.”

“No, it isn't,” Dragos said. His relaxed impassivity had vaporized. Now, even though he spoke as calmly as his son did, sharp authority had entered his demeanor. “I will give you a great many things, Liam. I will give you a home, and I will give you my love. I'll give you the best education, and when the time comes, I would be very pleased to give you
a strong starting position in my company. But I will not give you this.”

“I didn't ask you to,” said Liam. His arms hung at his sides, but Graydon noted that his hands had clenched into fists.

Ever since his birth, Liam's Wyr form, the dragon, had strained to reach full-size. In times of stress or crisis, especially, the boy had gone through several growth spurts already.

Now the Wyr demesne faced another challenge that struck at the foundation of its existence. Did the boy stand a little taller than he had the last time Graydon had seen him? Was he broader now across the shoulders, his voice deeper?

Dragos said, “This conversation is over.”

“Wait,” Pia said unexpectedly. “Dragos, hear him out.”

Of all the people present, Graydon had not expected Pia to be the one who spoke up. She had been deeply shaken the first couple of times Liam had gone through a growth spurt.

She wasn't any longer. Now as she watched Liam with a fascinated respect, along with so much love, she reminded him of the tireless devotion Bel had given to Ferion.

Dragos gave his mate a considering glance. As Pia slid out of the chair to perch on the arm of the nearby couch, Dragos leaned forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring up at Liam. Somehow, in those simple adjustments, Dragos's armchair had become a throne.

“All right,” Dragos said to his son. “Speak your piece.”

Liam glanced around the room. “My dragon is already bigger than any sentinel here,” he said. “In fact, my dragon is bigger and stronger than anybody else in this room except for you, and I'm faster than anybody else, except for Mom. The only reason why I don't win in the training sessions now is because I don't have enough experience. Yet.”

Dragos raised one sleek black eyebrow. “You are correct on all accounts. And your last point is the essential one.”

“Where will I fit in this demesne when I finish growing?” Liam asked. “And you know I'm going to finish growing soon. What job could I possibly take that will satisfy my
dragon?” He paused, his body tight. “How do I get experience if I don't do anything to earn it?”

Beside Graydon, Bel stirred. The discomfort in her expression threw him back to what she had once said about Ferion living a half life, never allowed to take too much responsibility in his father's demesne, yet never allowed to roam free either.

Disquieted by the memory, he frowned.

“You ask compelling questions for which we don't have answers, yet.” Dragos's voice softened. “We
will
find answers, and you
do
have a place and a home where you're valued and loved, always.
Always
, Liam. But still, I will not give you that sentinel position.”

“I'm not asking for you to give it to me,” Liam said. “I'll fight for it. I'll take it—just like every other sentinel has taken their position. I'll make it mine. What I want you to do is give me time to get ready for the fight. Dad, don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want to work in your company. And our demesne is so strong, this is the first time a sentinel has ever died, and this chance isn't going to come around again, soon or even ever. The only thing that would be worse than not letting me at least try would be to create an eighth position just because I'm your son.”